Games of Revenge
by MMcIntyre
Summary: The rebels have found victory, President Coin is dead, and a new nation has been formed. But revenge is on the minds of the wronged, and they'll only take it in one form: a final Hunger Games, whose participants will be the children of Panem's past rulers.
1. Chapter 1 - Katniss - Unchanging

Chapter One - Katniss - Unchanging

"Retribution," President Hawthorne intoned. "The people of the districts seek retribution against the Capitol's repression. Despite the execution of the old president, Snow, we find the suffering inflicted on our children unacceptable. Despite the stripping of the Capitols' citizens' special rights, we seek justice. Despite our new nation, the New Panem, we need to wash away the ills of the past. And the past will be washed away with blood." He paused to let the sentiment sink in. These words were obviously not Gale's. He had speech writers. But the hate behind them was obviously all his. His intense gaze raked across the assembled crowd in the Capitol city, people in their finery who were used to being on the other side of this situation. They stood cowed and afraid, hanging on and dreading the president's every word. "It is a time for celebration and a time for penance." That was a clever turn-around of the usual Hunger Games line, said since the first Games. No need to change tradition in order to change the country, perhaps.

"Let the first Justice Games begin." He stepped off the podium, returning to his seat on the stage. The New Panem seal was displayed right behind him.

"A new country, same old violence," muttered Peeta. He was seated beside me, in the front row, along with all the other former Hunger Games tributes. I, personally, had voted against holding the Justice Games. I never thought, in my wildest dreams, that I'd sit here, seeing retribution come, and knowing I had been part of it coming about - in fact, I'd been the Mockingjay, the symbol of the rebellion. And yet, here I was, trying to talk myself into living with my past deeds. Negotiating with my consience to be able to watch this. After all, I had been the spark that had cast Panem into these flames - and I'm not sure what who got burnt more, the Capitol system or the people of Panem. They had followed us, Peeta and I, they had followed me, into the fire and had come out not much better off. Sure, now it wasn't them that were at risk of death in the Arena, or abuse by Peacekeepers, but this was so far from the idea of liberty and of peace that I had wished for. So far from what I had hoped for. Some things never change, a lesson I had learned from Coin: the Justice Games were her idea, but after her death - at my hands - Gale had become President Hawthorne, and of course the trapper in my old friend couldn't resist setting the most effective and poetic trap he could possibly build I hadn't spoken to him since his inaugeration, last month: I couldn't bring myself to speak to him. Not after Prim. Anyhow, war crimes or no war crimes, he had been elected in New Panem's first election. Everyone had been thrilled to vote, and anyone over eighteen was allowed to - except citizens of the Capitol. Gale won in a landslide.

In Capitol Square, the dust of the rebel war was still settling. The shops and streets still showed clear evidence of gunfire, traps, and death.

The pavement was still scorched where a bomb had killed my sister.

A rug on the stage barely concealed the stain from Coin's blood, shed by my arrow. _Some things just don't wash out._

Mechanically, I rose and left. I just couldn't listen to the new rules of the Justice Games. They'd be the same as the rules of the Hunger Games: murder each other brutally untill only one contestant is left. Oh yeah, and the participants are all randomly-chosen kids, from twelve to eighteen years old.

New government, same amorality, as Peeta would say. Essentially, people are all the same: Now that the long-suffering people of the Districts had the power, they voted to bring to violence back, to let Gale's revenge and fire rule. They would do the same thing to the Capitol's children that had been done to them. An eye for an eye, Gale called it.

Peeta followed me out of the crowded square. He was the only one who could calm me down. I couldn't sit there amidst the crowd of faces, those who would soon see their children die in the Games' new incarnation. An all-too familiar kind of panic was setting in. I don't even know whether I walked or ran out.

Behind me, a cry echoed form the stage: "Happy Justice Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"


	2. Chapter 2 - Trish - Chances

Chapter Two - Trish - Chances

"Yep. Everything's set," I practically chirped into the phone. "Our Hunger... er, Justice Games party is totally ready. All we need is to do is set everything up then wait for everyone to arrive." I was talking to Bree, my best friend in the whole Capitol. Every year, we always had our Hunger Games party. And it wouldn't change just because of some change in government. The only thing that had really changed for me was that we had some house guests, because their apartments had been wrecked by the rebels or the Peacekeepers or whoever. I bounced off my brand-new goose down bed.

I looked myself over in my vanity's mirror. From the top of my pink wig to my feathered boots, I was all style. And I'd need to be, since the reaping was tonight. I might get to be on TV when they panned the crowd, and I needed to look my best. After all, I was going to be sitting right up front, among the other young Capitolers - just how the kids from the Districts had stood in front of the stage during the old Reapings, and so many of them had been spotted on TV.

"You hang up!" said Bree. It was the usual use of the last ten minutes of our phone calls: deciding who would hang up. It was some sort of trend, I'd heard. I didn't know why, since I thought it made me sound dumb. But I couldn't just ignore a trend.

Suddenly, my dad stomped into the room, and snatched the phone out of my hand with his perfectly-manicured fingers. "What is your problem? Dad-eeeee!"

"What were you doing on that phone?" He shouted the question with a kind of volume and rage I'd never heard from him before.

"I was just planning a Justice Games party. You heard that new Presidential guy. It's a time for celebration!" What was wrong with him? Whenever there was a Games, there was a party. We'd get together, eat the caviar from 4 that I'd stockpiled, and bet everything on everything. My money was on someone from the Outer Capitol winning...

"Don't you understand, you thick little girl? We're no longer safe! Your grandfather is dead, the rebels have taken the Capitol, and we're no longer watching the Games! We are the Games!"

I still didn't understand this. I stood stock still, completely stunned. He was always so cool about my parties, my fashion, everything. But here he was, stomping schizodly around the room, his hip blond wig askew and his fine woolen suit soaked with tears. I just blinked back tears. No one ever yelled at me, or stressed about the Games.

"When's the last time you actually listened to the news, Trish? It's a new government. And that does affect us!" He began tugging at his wig and trying to straighten his suit simultaneously. The overall affect of his too-red face, coated in tears, and sideways wig was almost funny. I supressed a giggle. "And here you are, laughing! You silly girl! I shouldn't have shielded you so much from what was going on in Panem. You don't even get it! This year, the constestants in the Games will be from the Capitol! The relatives of past leaders!"

This brought me down to earth. I was begining to see why we was freaked. "Does that mean..." I trailed off mid-question.

"Your grandfather was the President. You have more chances to be Reaped than anybody!" He pressed a soggy piece of paper. I peeked at it as he continued to stalk around my room, bellowing. The note was headed up with the official seal of Panem, and it read:

_Governmental Notice: Justice Games Rules_

_This year's Justice Games will be a final installment of the Hunger Games, meant to settle the score between the people of the districts and their Capitol counterparts. As a final revenge and an agent of poetic justice, these Games will be a fight to the death, on live TV, between the relatives between the ages of 12 and 16 of past Capitol leaders. The amount of ballots one child has in the reaping will be decided by three factors:_

_ - The child's relationship to a past leader or war criminal:  
__1 ballot for cousins  
__2 ballots for nieces and nephews  
__3 ballots for children and grandchildren_

_ - The age of the child:_

_1 ballot for 12 year olds, then one ballot added per year untill the child reaches 19, when he becomes ineligible for the Reaping._

_ - The rank of the child's relative:  
__1 ballot for peacekeepers  
__2 ballots for soldiers  
__3 ballots for officers  
__4 ballots for gamemakers  
__5 ballots for mayors, state representatives, and senators_

I had to read the notice three times before this line sank in:

_10 ballots for President Snow_

I was the grandchild of a past leader. I was 16.

I was related to President Snow.

I looked up these facts on the paper, forcing myself to do the math. I had eighteen ballots in the Reaping. More chances than anybody. I struggled to understand what this meant, what this was and how it changed things for me. It was eighteen chances to go die in a gory way. It was more likely that I would go to the arena than anyone else in Panem. I collapsed onto the bed.

The Games no longer seemed like fun.


	3. Chapter 3 - Brendan - Gamemaker

Chapter 3 - Brendan - Gamemaker

"Checkmate."

I toppled my opponent's king. I'd seen that very coup de grace coming, four moves ahead. Chess, like life, required foresight. Control. And I had it.

"You're needed in command, Soldier," stated one of the 13 clones. He stepped into the room without asking. While I was playing. That was a no-no, and he should have been warned.

"Did I hear you knock, lamebrain? No shit, I'm needed in Command. That bunch doesn't have a true Gamemaker among them, except maybe Heavensbee. Maybe even him. Too flashy. Anyways, they do need me."

"Yes, sir." Looks like he was getting used to the verbal abuses. Next I'd have to try some of the pressure points I knew. Something to look forward to. "Are you going to Command?" He shifted his weight, unsure. It was what he always did when he was nervous. My rebel babysitter was just getting too obvious.

"What do you think? Oh, wait. You don't think." I stalked out of the room, heading right down the hallways of the presidential mansion to Command. Plutarch, Haymitch, Katniss Everdeen, Beetee, and the new-and-improved president were loitering in there, prepping for the Games. I wondered what they needed Everdeen for. Her purpose was played out.

"Brendan, we're going to need you in the control booth. Are you in?"

The second Plutarch Heavensbee asked me that fateful little question, I knew what I was going to say. Instinctively, I'd go with something like "Hell yeah" or "Finally." But I knew that Gamemakers didn't show that kind of enthusiasm. No emotion, no weakness. I'd had that pounded into me for so long. So I gave him a practiced little "Yes, sir." He'd never know how my heart had skipped a beat or how long I'd looked forward to my first real Games.

I had been an apprentice to the Capitol Gamemakers since I was fourteen. I suppose that makes it two years. I'd been funnelled into the education path for the future leaders and controllers of Panem for a long time before that. It was finally coming to fruition, today.

So what if it was happening under the rebels? I was here because I'd had the foresight to flip sides right after that foolish Mockingjay chick won the Games. I'd known what would happen, four moves ahead. If I was lucky and played my cards right, the Justice Games would become an annual thing. Never underestimate the bloodlust of a nation.

"You're going to safeguard the arena from counterstrikes," continued Heavensbee. "Since the Tributes will be children of high-up Capitol thinkers, you'll need it completely proofed. And that's where our crafty Mockingjay comes in, along with Beetee. Any leaks will undermine the new government. Fix them."

"I can list three off the bat. First, contact between Tributes should be discouraged. Keep them distanced, or they could arrange some sort of mass suicide or truce. It would have less impact if we had to drop our strike forces and masscare them off the bat." These words were recieved by a stoney silence. "You'd think the Tributes wouldn't give up their lives offhand, but god knows what the Capitol daddies and mommies will put their crotchfruit up to. Second, any chink in that force shield's armour can't stand - "

"I fixed it," the nerd from Four interjected.

"You sure? It started off pretty damn weak. I'm suprised no one thought of taking it down before you."

"I think it was brilliant work," Heavensbee added in a soothing tone. He gave me a look, a clear sign that I should tone it down.

"Good," I said appeasingly. I didn't care what anyone thought of me, except those that could take my Games away from me. So I was forced to play nice in front of the old fool. "But lastly, I think we shouldn't hold the opening or the presentation of the victor in the square. Let's move into the mansion. Plenty of space for elite rebel invitees, and no way that a saboteur could get in."

"Good thinking. For the chariot rides, we'll place barricades and a detail," added Haymitch.

"Great minds think alike," I schmoozed. I'd caught Heavensbee chatting amicably with Haymitch. A friend of my boss is a possiblity to get a good word in.

"Or fools fail to differ," muttered Everdeen.

"We're not fools," I muttered, barely containing the instant rage these words sparked. Anyone who dared call me a fool... Her, standing in the back of the room, supporting these Games not by choice but only to press the rebel cause on. She didn't want the bloodletting, and she was taking it out on my chances of getting my shot. Such a fool, underneath it all. Too sentimental to kill a few Capitol brats for the good of the new nation. It was like pruning a tree. Cut off the old dead bits - or rather deadbeats - to please and nurture the rest of the plant.

"What I mean is that you failed to consider the most important variable," she spat. "You can get Reaped. Your little brain isn't so precious that the rebels won't see it splattered on the ground of an arena. No kid from the Capitol is safe, just like none of us from the Districts were." She tossed a paper at me, and I barely caught it time.

"The rules for the Reaping? This is unacceptable! I can't be eligible," I sputtered, "You need me!"

"The rules need to be fair and even. So you'll have your ballots, like anyone." Someone said that, but I didn't know who. I had stalked out the door already. I wasn't going to be thrown into my own Arena!

Fact was, I could be. Looks like I'd get my Games at last.

Only it was possible that I'd get them from the wrong end.


	4. Chapter 4 - Mel - Leftovers

Chapter 4 - Mel - Leftovers

Sometimes, there is nothing left in you but fight or flight. All the thoughts, emotions, the confusing things that you thought were truly you, they all fade into the background and what's left is instinct. The question isn't about morals, it's not about feelings, and it doesn't even hit the complexity of priorities, really. Fight. Or flight. Period. When you think about it, that base urge has its own sort of elegance, a simplicity that neither thought nor emotion can grant you. And when the enemy happens to have a gun - well, the options are cut in half. Whittled down to one. Flight is the only thing left to you. That, or to scream, if you've really given up. But hope springs eternal, doesn't it?

It was a bright morning, I remember that - or maybe the memories are so cloaked by a haze of terror and adrenaline that it just seems that way in retrospect. The world was narrowed down to me and the unpaved path. Gravel flew from beneath my urgent feet. There was a stitch in my side. And the Peacekeeper probably still had me in his sights, just waiting for me to give a moment's pause in order to shoot.

The path that ended in this sad little situation was long, sort of twisted. I suppose the direct error is more interesting than the long version - I made the mistake of being spotted looking for a way to sneak into the train station, seeking to get out of the Capitol. Or more indirectly, I made the error in judgement of joining up with the Peacekeepers. It's funny, to be the law one minute and dashing away from it the next. A Peacekeeper, treated like a common criminal. And I'd done nothing wrong! Back home in District 2, joining the Peacekeeping corps early was the best solution to guarantee food, shelter and medical care. I had three siblings, and work was scarce in the quarrying business, leaving my parents unemployed. As soon as I turned eighteen, I joined up, to ensure safety and money for my family, and the Capitol, as promised, took care of us. The Capitol had been good to me, and I'd been good to it: before the attacks, I'd been a medic in training, a straight A student at the Peacekeepers' academy and a loyal subject of the Capitol. Ready to do what was needed. And when the rebellion came, I did: I was posted to District Eight, a flaming wreck of a place, and I did my duty, acting as a combat medic for my Centuria. I didn't fire a shot in anger; I disloged a lot of them from the injured, handled a lot of broken people.

And now, I was being hunted down like a dog, simply for serving the law and supporting my family.

But back to the matter at hand. I pulled the hood of my black jacket down, hoping to hide my face. As usual, anonymity was my first and only line of defense against this upstart government's "agents of the law". I continued my mad dash, trying to block out my rising panic, mute the hysteria and find focus - to concentrate on my one shot at saftety. The fence. If I could make it to that divider between the growing refugee camps and the wilds, then I could possibly hide until nightfall. After all, these rebels were nothing if not sloppy.

Without so much a glance back, I took a leap of faith. I usually hate such things - leaps of faith, taking huge, unfounded chances - but when a wild shot's all you have, you take it. Thank the gods that fence wasn't electrified. Anyways, I clung to it in desperation, scrabbled over the thing, and launched myself into the air, hurtling out of what passed for civilization lately and into the wilds. I could feel the shock waves from the bullets that hit the ground near my feet, too close, so close. The gunfire receded, finally, but it left ghosts of itself in my ears. But I could hear the birds singing again. After ten minutes of waiting, hidden behind an opportune rock overhang, I hustled away, half-walked half-jogged a couple kilometres, following near to the fence, just catching glimpses of it through the trees. Less and less sunlight was filtering through the branches, so I figured it had to be getting towards six or seven at night. I'd promised to be home at five. I picked up the pace, simultaneously trying not to stumble over exposed roots in the thin layer of underbrush and keep an eye out for that landmark. Ah, there it was - an old jack pine, bent over itself and leaning against the fence. With a sigh, I started to climb the damn thing; I hated heights, the feeling of being balanced above the hard, cold ground, set to fall anytime. Just had to put up with it, I suppose.

Once over the fence, it was maybe ten minutes walk "home". And I put that in quotations because it sure as hell didn't feel like home. This shack was in the Outer Capitol, the current location of refugee camps, barracks for rebel soldiers, and other assorted habitations and buildings which didn't quite fit into the Capitol's jammed, bright, lively core. It was still an exclusive neighbourhood, apparently. My current home was temporary housing, a steel frame with a stove and the bits of furniture we'd managed to scrape together.

It was my mom who opened the door. "Mel honey, are you okay? You're late, you look terrible, you worried me half to death, you said you'd be home at -"

"Cripes, let me get in, would you?" I said it with a smile; she was such a mother hen. I wanted to prolong the inevitable bad news I had to give her; I'd failed at what I'd set out to do that day. The train station that lead to the friendlier, more anonymous Districts, maybe even home in 2, where we had extended family, was swarmed with enemy forces. _Enemy forces_ - I still thought like a Peacekeeper. Some part of me was too stubborn to give up. "Can I get a glass of water?"

"Sure." God, she'd be so disappointed in me... getting out of the Capitol was the only chance we had at a new life. Here, I was known as a Peacekeeper. There were dozens of people who knew me as one, all ready to sell me out for some bread. There were books of faces to look for passed around, jammed with every Peacekeeper, my name was in the Reaping for the Justice Games, however unlikely getting drawn was, and there were checkpoints and identification checks everywhere, on all the main streets. Just walking through town pratically required an action plan.

We needed out.

Mom dug around for a glass, and found one. I took off my boots, loped over to the kitchen table.

As soon as she had me seated, she asked the question. "Did you find someone? Someone who can get us out of here?"

"Of couse he did," came a voice from the back door. My little brother, Josh - what would I tell him? "Mel knows what he's doing."

I had no choice but to deliver the news: a short sentence, like a condamnation. "There's no way out."


	5. Chapter 5 - Trish - First Reaping

Trish - Chapter 5 - First Reaping

I spent the walk to Capitol square - a large outdoors space outside the Presidential Manor - wondering what my grandfather had been like. I hadn't known him personally; he was a busy man, occupied with the running of the country, of course. My one memory of meeting him was distant, at ten years old. My father had brought me to a dinner right here, in this Manor. I had sat and eaten, very politely, while making nice small talk about my school lessons and my esteemed granddad to adults I didn't know, with the President himself sitting at the head of the table. After dessert, he had walked over and put a hand on my shoulder; I remembered being nervous, wondering what he'd be like, wondering what a grandfather was like. I remember wondering whether he was going to give me a sweet - Bree had told me that grandfathers did that, and patted your head, or at least her grandpappy did with her. Grandfathers were supposed to be nice old men, like in storybooks, I figured; I had mental images of reading stories together and telling jokes and warm hugs. What I got was a little different. The President had kneeled down so his face was level with mine, looked me right in the eye - I'd expected his eyes to be warm, have a twinkle in them, but these were grey and cold - and he'd shaken my hand. "Hmm, Granddaughter," he'd muttered, almost distractedly. "It's nice to meet you, young lady." I'd responded, but I don't remember my exact words, and he'd left pretty quickly after that. He'd talked to my dad and I for maybe three or five minutes.

Of course, all my life most of my family, tutors and other adults have assured me that President Snow was a great man. I didn't quite know what "great" meant, specifically, when it was describing a person, but it was said in a complimentary, almost awed tone, like a fan talking about a favourite celebrity. The rebels were less flattering, of course; propagandas almost hysterically shouted of terrible repression perpetrated by an evil and egotistical man. I didn't quite know what to think of the man whose relationship to me was such a target on my back.

"Now, Trish," said my dad, breaking me out of my daydream. "There's no space for me in the view area, I'll be out in here in the square. You have to go, sign in, and head to the front. Just stay c-calm." That last advice was hypocrisy; even though he turned his head away, his voice broke a little, and I could tell that he was emotional.

"Don't worry, daddy. What are the odds?" I tried to look calm myself. Honestly, I'd been telling myself not to think about it, not to talk about it, not to mention it - my name wouldn't be drawn, it wouldn't. If I considered the possibility, I'd break, so I just didn't consider it. So I gave him a hug, and stepped quickly towards the entrance of the Mansion. _Time to get this over with._

Those eligible for the Reaping had to sign in. I walked up to the table, and a guy pricked my arm, verifying my identity. "Trish Kelly Snow," he muttered, poking at the electronic register. He looked up and gave me a piercing look. "Your granddaddy can't save you now," he said with a cackle. "Go on in, princess." I obeyed, a little stunned, and stumbled on in.

And as I signed in and was herded to the front, near the stage, I had the odd impression that this place should feel warmer, more familiar. My grandfather's house. The place was spotless and official, with ornate furniture and tasteful art. It would have been quite nice if not for the atmosphere: the crowd huddled in like they were heading for the graveside at a funeral. There was a stormcloud in the room. I sat down. _Breathe deeply, Trish. This'll be over soon. It'll seem like a bad dream,_ I told myself.

The ceremony started with the national anthem, and then a recounting of the country's history - but from a very different point of view. In previous years, it had been the tale of anarchist rebels fighting the heroic Capitol with filthy tactics, shedding much blood, and getting punished in the righteous Treaty of Treason. Now, the rebels were martyrs, the Capitol guilty for the deaths of hundreds of children in the evil and uncalled for Hunger Games. The Second Rebellion, the Panem Revolution, was a beautiful thing, of course. After the history lesson, the new president appeared, and with little ado, jumped into a short speech, and I have to admit I zoned out for most of it. Not a word sounded authentic, anyways.

"Let these Games of justice serve as the basis for a new Panem, a righting of wrongs so long suffered by the honest people of the Districts. Let the Justice Games begin!" He stood there, letting this point sink in, then bowed a little and left the podium, quickly replaced by a short woman in a bright, stylish dress that wouldn't look out of place in my own wardrobe - all gold, with a simple black belt fastened with a Mockingjay buckle. The Mockingjay was a really fashionable touch, I noticed, sort of glad to be thinking of something as familar as style and fashion. The woman's makeup was also impeccable, more gold all over, and her wig was a contrasting metallic black. She had good taste, or so I thought. But - this seemed odd to me - President Hawthorne didn't seem to want to see her at all. He neither introduced her or looked at her face as she replaced him at the podium, as if he disliked her somehow.

"I'm Effie Trinket," she began, in a voice filled with enthusiasm, "and I have the honour of drawing the brave young ladies and gentlemen who'll be participating in this year's Justice Games. Let's show the Districts that the Capitol also know how to play the Games!" She held for applause, and I clapped politely, along with maybe five or six other audience members. "Well, I won't hold you in suspense any longer! We'll draw a girl then a boy, until we have twenty-four lucky Tributes. Happy Justice Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

She turned towards the ball that held all the names. "Ladies first!" She slipped her hand into the ball, rummaged around a little bit, digging towards the bottom, and pulled out a slip. "Charity Holland! Where's Charity? You look lovely, dear. Here, smile for the crowd!"

And on it went, a girl then a boy. Adeline Mormount, a plain girl with in simple clothes. Johnson Booth, who kept a stoically straight face. Colette Wan, short and unassuming. Melanite Knox, blank-faced and stoic. Shanna Teresa Lewis, only thirteen and clearly terrified. Evan O'Neill, a reedy boy who sniffed back tears. Brienne Jameson, a tall girl with a proud expression. Yann Belliard, stocky in a tight suit. Jeanine Richards, stylish from head to toe and clearly in shock. Marcellus Grantaire, muscular and oddly enthusiastic.

Trish Snow.

I stood there for a moment before in sank in. "Where's Trish? Trish Snow?" Mechanically, I raised my hand and started up towards the stage. "Come up, dear. Ah, yes, I'd bet aaaa-nything that you're President Snow's granddaughter! Wonderful, wonderful, this is exactly what the Justice Games are about!" I tripped on the stairs to the stage, and a rough hand shot out to help me up - a guard with a grim expression. I stumbled up as Effie Trinket kept up her verve-filled chatter. "Don't be nervous." A microphone was thrust in front of my nose. "Is there anything you'd like to say? Maybe you could tell us about your grandfather?"

The truth spilled out before I could think. Honestly, my head was empty of all formed thought. There was only the harsh lights, Effie's glinting smile, the room turning wildly around me - and I replied, "I barely knew him," which merited a little "hmm" and a pursing of Effie's perfectly made-up lips as the room continued to spin.

The last thing I saw was the new president's almost wolfy smirk before I passed out.


	6. Chapter 6 - Mel - Reaped

**Author's note: **I didn't realise this was going to turn into something so long when I resumed it - it started in '11, then stalled for the longest time. Anyways, I'm back, and this thing's wordcount and the outline I have for it are both rapidly expanding, way more then I expected them to, so thanks for reading and following despite the length (and possibly quality) issues. If you see any contradictions of Hunger Games canon, or spelling, style and grammar errors, could you please leave a review pointing them out? I'd love the chance to improve this thing, and would appreciate the help.

* * *

Chapter 6 - Mel - Reaped

The authorities came to the door around nine in the morning, a harsh rap and a shout of "open up!". It used to be me doing the knocking, so I knew that they were as afraid as the person inside the house - the cop doing a house call never quite knows whether he'll meet someone cooperative and friendly or someone desperate with a weapon. So I took my good time getting to the door; there was no curiousity because I already knew what they wanted, no real reason to hustle. They could stew for a few extra seconds.

I swung the door open to find three of the new police waiting. "It's Reaping Day," states one of the cops.

"You're eligible because of your service to the Capitol, along with your age. You're eighteen, right?" interjects the second. I already knew this was why they were here, but hearing it out loud, said matter-of-factly, somehow makes it hit home all over again. What would happen to my mom and siblings if I was drawn? What if one of my siblings were? Of course, the odds have to be astronomical. I have 7 ballots because I'm eighteen, 5 because I was a Peacekeeper myself. That's eleven. I wasn't as bad-off as, for example, a gamemaker's son or any relative of the President. And my younger siblings are 12 and 13 - they had only two or three ballots each.

"Yes, I realise that I'm eligible," I told the officer. He motioned towards a van, and I call to my brothers. "Come on, guys." I tried desperately to show no fear - it would do no good to scare the kids - but I feel like a lamb, led to the slaughter without resistance. My siblings piled into the van, and we all packed in to the backseat together. What else could we have done? Running into the wilderness would get them killed, by wildlife or the elements. Trying to fight back and stay home would mean getting shot. There was no way to get back to District Two, as I'd found out yesterday. I was trapped on all sides.

The van trundled along in dead silence. We were jammed in along with six or eight other flight risks. No one spoke, no one looked each other in the eye. We were stuck together in a kind of cone of silence, each unwilling to show fear. On some level, I guess we were all thinking, _Better you than me, stranger. As long as I'm not the Tribute. _It's hard to be friendly to someone when you know you'd trade them in a heartbeat to save yourself or a family member. It would have made words of comfort seem forced.

Apparently we were the last to get picked up, because the next stop was Capitol Square. It was an oddly nice morning, not a cloud on the horizon, a contrast to the storm brewing among the crowd. The place radiated anxiety; the entire square was filled with Capitolites over eighteen, waiting on their younger relatives inside the Presidential Manor or just coming out to see who got picked. Some were visibly emotional, panicked at the prospect of losing a relative. I suppose I was an old hand at this - I'd been eligible for the Hunger Games as well, being from Two - but back then, there had always been volunteers from my District, so I'd never felt at risk like this. Capitolites, on the other hand, had never even come close to this kind of danger before, and it seemed to be wreaking the intended amount of emotional havoc. Tear-stained faces, hands being wrung, desperate, clingy hugs given to younger kids, parents who stood blank-faced as they watched their kids check in and go into the Reaping - it was all new for this city.

I set my shoulders and guided my siblings to the line-up. We were checked in. "Knox, Melanite, eighteen," said the guy doing that. I told him I preferred just Mel. I seemed to have to say that whenever I met someone, so it was a knee-jerk reaction. I hated my first name - my father was a geologist, and apparently thought the name of a mineral was a good name for a child. I disagreed, once I was old enough. Understandably, this was greeted by a why-do-I-care look, a waving hand gesture, and a mutter of "Good luck."

We were ushered into a ballroom, stuffed with every person from 12 to 18 from the Capitol. The room was cacaphonously loud, and an imposing stage was set up in front, draped in the colours of the new Panem flag, scarlet and black. The room itself and its funishings - statues and side tables in rich woods, wall hangings and carpeting in the old government's trademark purple - was a relic of the Capitol's glory days as a ruling city. President Snow used to have meetings and parties here, I supposed; it still retained an air of authority and officiality. It was intimidating, maybe only because of the circumstances. "Mel?" squeaked my little brother, only 12.

"Yeah?" He'd been silent the whole ride here. Why hadn't it occured to me to worry about him, or my other sibling Rory, older by only one year?

"We'll be okay, right? They aren't going to - to p-pick us?"

"Of couse not," I said, summoning as much calm as I could. It wouldn't do to seem unnerved in front of these two, to panic them. "Just stay here in the back, hold on to Rory's hand really tight, okay? Stay here, and I'll be in the front of the room, then we'll all walk home together when it's over. All right?" He nodded, sniffing a little.

I took a deep breath and proceeded to the very front, with the rest of the eighteen-year-olds. The ceremonies began almost immediately, with the new national anthem, a wordless and dramatic tune with heavy brass and percussion. President Hawthorne - or the Usurper, as my father had started to so eloquently refer to him - stepped up to the podium and told a doctored version of Panem's history. It was obvious propaganda, the tale of a heroic young woman saving Panem through her brave actions as the Mockingjay. As if everyone here didn't know that she was just a puppet. I would've bet my last _denarius* _that some sort of rebel leadership, maybe Coin herself, had put her and lover-boy up to that nightlock escapade just to cause this anarchic revolution. Traitors, all of them, sitting on the stage. The Mockingjay herself was here, up there with the rest. My blood was boiling, but no one seemed to share the sentiment - fear seemed to outweigh loyalty or anger. Maybe the crowd outside, composed more of adults, would get worked up over these lies; after all, everyone here in the Capitol had lost homes, friends, status and riches because of the rebellion.

After Hawthorne finished his speech, a vapid, riduculously-dressed woman trotted out onstage. She chirped an introduction, then began to draw names, one by one, and the new Tributes dragged themselves to the front, mostly looking beaten. I didn't remark names or even faces; all I could think was _not me, not my brothers, please, please -_

"And now for our second boy! Oh, let's see -" the presenter rummaged over-dramatically in the bottom of the drum of names, _not us not us not us - _"Johnson Booth!" The boy was pale but didn't betray any fear, or any emotion at all for that matter. Poor sap. Two down, ten to go. _You'll be fine, fine... but what if? You could be stabbed, drowned, burnt - the pain, the kids watching -_

Another girl was drawn as my panic grew. _You're not large, you could be wrestled down and killed slowly if you have the misfortune of running into a sadist - and there's always muttations, there's always being eaten alive -_

"The third boy is... Drumroll please, tee hee -" _Not me, not me._ "Melanite Knox!"

Me. It was me, and a strange thing happened; my panic disappeared. There was some insane part of me ready to rush the guard right now, to go down fighting. It made no difference to me now; pay me now, pay me later, either way I was dead. Dead men have no reason to fear, I guess, but I can't say exactly what came over me. So why not show a little bravery on the way out?, I asked myself, Show them I was not a tool or a coward. But my brother caught my eye, and I returned jarringly to my senses. I realised that I had to fight through the Games. I had to fight for him, for my mom - I needed to do my best to get out alive, come back for them. I couldn't throw my life away, not when there were people who needed me waiting at home.

So I walked up to the gallows, smiling slightly. Dead men have no reason to fear.

* * *

* - name of a currency - taken from Ancient Rome. (I realised that the original book never mentioned what the currency of Panem is, so I wanted to highlight the similarities between the Capitol and Rome, as the original author does by using given names like Octavia or Caesar. Heck, the Capitol was the Roman Senate's building, and subject nations used to pay Tribute to Rome - it's a clear parallel for a history geek like me.)


	7. Chapter 7 - Brendan - Reversal

AN:

Yes, it's short. But I don't really need to triple down on Reaping details, I hope. I try to keep the narration to new facts, instead of repeating any details. Yes, I've borrowed tribute names from all sorts of sources. The Tribute called Grantaire mentioned here has nothing to do with R. from Les Mis.

Chapter 7 - Brendan - Reversal

One in one thousand and thirty two. Those were my odds. One chance in one thousand and thirty two that I would be drawn. I'd calculated it last night, since I couldn't sleep. My odds were very low, lower than most, and even if I was drawn, I would have a decent chance of making it. I was intimately familiar with arenas and Games. That was if I was drawn, which was not going to happen if the math was to be believed. And the math is always to be believed.

Or at least that's what I told myself as I walked to the presidential manor, past the manicured gardens, pastel houses and shiny storefronts that made up the Capitol Core. Well, a little less shiny and perfect than they used to be. There was a certain look of dereliction and depression in the Capitol since the rebels won, the people especially. Their normal verve and cheer was hollow lately. Normally, this would please me - nothing was more annoying than a vapid, fashion-obssessed, lazy, useless Capitolite, and I'd had to deal with enough - but it reminded of the Districts, in a way. There was no other way to describe the odd look of defeat that seemed to build itself in to all other expressions, to deflate the . Outwardly, they were still the same; the outlandish fashions, the slightly dazed affect didn't change. But that sense of downtrodden worry and sadness was there. Maybe it was all in my head, since I'd only started to notice it since I found out I was eligible for the Games. Maybe I was losing it.

Mechanically, I registered, took my seat in the front, all the while consciously keeping a straight and balanced face. No fear, no worry. _A Gamemaker doesn't fear his own creation. These will be your Games._ Actually, the vague threat of the Games didn't irritate me as much as the fact that I was sitting in a crowd. At the head of the long list of things I hate are crowds. Sweat started to bead off my neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt. _I want this over. Soon._

Luckily, I started to get my wish. One of the most exaggerated, irritating specimens of the Vapid Capitolite - a species as common and pesky as rats - was master of ceremonies. President Model 3.0 got up and spewed propaganda.

Then they finally got down to business. Drawings. What will I have to work with, when I'm in the control booth? Apparently not much. This year's crop ran the gamut from mama's boys to shemales to . It seemed to me that the real competitors, out of the first dozen, might be Marcellus Grantaire - he had that Career Tribute kind of enthusiasm, which seemed to be lacking this year - or Brienne Jameson, with her good looks, athletic body and proud attitude.

As I began to get a little bored, my mind wandered. I wondered how not having Career Tributes will affect the Games. I suppose it'll make things more even, but then again, the best kills were always produced by the trained ones...

"Trish Snow." Wow, the President's granddaughter? Yes, that was her. I'd recognise that girl... we knew each other, ages ago. Actually, our first meeting was right here, in this very ballroom. I'd been, what, eleven? Yes, it was at a stuffy black-tie dinner thing. Some sort of prominent Capitol families get together, and they'd decided to include the kids for some reason. The only things I could really clearly recall were the itch of my monkey suit (why did people have tuxes for kids?) and that girl. We'd goofed off together, went to play Tributes and Careers in the kitchens with some other little kids. I'd been caught chasing her through some back hall, trying to tag her, and gotten a massive lecture about proper behaviour and how she was important and to be treated very carefully. If she'd tripped, if we'd gotten lost, I would have been in the biggest trouble imaginable, apparently.

And here she was, all grown up and ready to be killed. Fainting on the stage. There was no way she'd win - by the looks of her, she'd grown into yet another brightly feathered little bird, interested in fashion and herself, she wasn't terribly strong or big, plus she'd fainted in fear to boot - and I almost regretted it. Almost. Knowing them makes it worse.

As I zoned out for a second time, recalling all this, we'd gotten down to the last pair of tributes. The final boy was being drawn. _Hope it's an interesting one. We need some power players._

"And our final lucky, lucky young man is -" trilled the MC, "Brendan Greymark!"

Me. Me, I was going into the Games. A jailer locked in his own prison. Cast into a Hell I'd helped to make. I started to proceed to the stage. Even steps. No haste, no fear. The eyes on you mean nothing, I coached myself. These are your Games to win. But how could they do this to me? It was me, the true Gamemaker, the consummate showman. They needed me. How could I be killed, who was supposed to be so above all this? Hot with rage, I finished my path onto the stage. The woman's words were lost on me, I produced the best smile I could, but it was probably more a tight-lipped grimace. The curtains dropped. And I was lead off to await my Games.


	8. Chapter 8 - Katniss - Harvest

**AN: **Aha! Edited to have some plot movement! Because every revolution needs coups and counter-coups. Lots of 'em.

Chapter 8 - Katniss - Harvest

"Katniss! Get up, dear! We have a big, big, big day!"

No matter how many times you wake up to that, it just doesn't get better. Effie Trinket shouted from the hall, and sounded just like a very cheerful crow. She burst into my well-appointed rooms in the Capitol - not home, that would always be District 12, but an apartment rented for the duration of the Games, their leadup and aftermath - and the room was immediately filled with her chatter and noise.

_You can get through this day,_ I told myself. _Peeta's meeting you there, he'll help you get through this twisted "party", you'll be home by the weekend._

My Reaping Day itinerary was understandably full - after all, a Mockingjay's work is never done. Being symbolic is a whole-life job, apparently. I didn't have the option to quit, no matter what my feelings were.

The first stop was breakfast, which consisted of a pastry and coffee ("pastry? Not good eating habits for a star, you need your figure," tutted Effie) then an appointment with a prep team. Not my prep team, but a new trio of Capitolites, and not a chatty bunch, which was fine with me. After that painful rubbing and brushing, I was rammed into a sedate black dress with some flame embrodery and handed my trademark Mockingjay pin, then summarily bundled off into a black car and carted off to the presidential manor to participate in the proceedings. "Smile," urged Effie regularly throughout the process.

My scowl remained fixed. This whole deal did nothing but remind me of my experience as a tribute, which inevitably led me to think about the twenty-four lives that would be ruined today, along with their families... exactly the kind of thoughts I couldn't afford. I swallowed the nausea that had been climbing my throat all morning. I needed to be pleasant, quiet, hide this sense of ill ease. I could be back in Twelve in three days, if I just played along. An outburst would only drag me back into this massive game of politics. Walking out of the Games announcement hadn't played well; speculation was creeping its way through the Capitol, whisperers asking if I had problems with this Justice Games setup. Haymitch had explained that I had been feeling ill - symptoms from an injury sustained in the fighting, not intense but uncomfortable quite often.

Effie and I were lead through a back entrance of the Presidential Mansion, directly onto the stage.

The ceremony was standard. It was all I could do not to have flashbacks to the Reaping where Prim was chosen and I stepped in - the format was similar, but 24 Tributes were drawn. I saw Gale - oops, President Hawthorne - up close for the first time. All he did was grin at me, since there was no opportunity to talk. I scowled back.

Peeta seemed to notice, to know that I was thinking about our Games. Actually, he probably was too, and I was vaguely ashamed that I hadn't thought to comfort him. He gave me a pleasant smile, and he held my hand throughout the ceremony, and I wasn't sure how it would play on TV, but for the moment it felt good. Steadying.

I tried to distract myself the whole while, trying to recall the lyrics of old songs in the back of my head, keeping my mind off the coming atrocity. _.. the rattlin' bog, rare bog the rattlin' bog, the bog down in the valley-o..._ finish the ceremony, get home. Get this over with, be back in 12 in a week. All I needed to do was look good.

Somehow it ended in just under two hours, and I was out of the Mansion through that back door as quickly as possible. Frankly, I wanted to get out of there without talking to Gale. How would that conversation go? "Did you kill my sister, you bastard?" "Ah, Catnip, your mom can have more!" Actually, it would probably be tearful and painful. Like pulling teeth. Or reopening wounds. He'd try to explain himself, I wouldn't buy it, I'd be left feeling the pain of missing Prim in an all-new way. There was nothing to gain.

As I climbed into the limo with Peeta, a news report on the Reaping was already playing, buzzards dissecting the corpses already. "And this year's contestants are going to include a Peacekeeper, a Gamemaker apprentice and president Snow's own granddaughter," began one of the talking heads. "Exactly what these games are about, justice against those guilty for the Capitol's crimes."

_Sure, maybe the Gamemaker and the Peacekeeper should get it,_ I thought, _But what about the other Tributes? There was a 12-year-old boy. Did he deserve it? The one that cried when he was drawn? The one whose family is already grieving?_

"It's not our place to ask those questions, sweetheart," said Haymitch. I jumped, realising I'd said that out loud. "We just have to play our roles in one more Games." With that, he reached into his pocket and produced a flask. Of course, drunk right when I might need him. Peeta just smiled sadly.

A loud bang pierced my thoughts and resonated through the limosine. Haymitch and I exchanged a confused look, but before we could even do that, a tapping came at the window, rapid and insistant. Actually, it was a cluster of tapping and banging - a hailstorm of fists hitting onto the window, mingling with the loud cries of the people outside. Peeta slid closer to me, protective as usual, and Haymitch pressed the button to talk to the driver, and shouted, "what the hell is going on out there?"

I think we already knew the answer. There weren't many reasons for angry people to try and stop our car - "Protestors," confirmed the driver. "We're going to push right through, fast as possible."

"Won't he hit some of them if we do that?" The words seemed foolish once I said them. Of course we would, and why did I care?

"Lady, either I hit them or they hit you," responded the driver. I could barely hear his reply over the yelled slogans of the crowd. _Down with the Rebels! Free the Capitol's children! End the Games! Let the girl on fire burn! Down with the Mockingjay! _The window was still a maelstorm of fists and sleeves, but the car plowed through bullishly, bodies occaisonally thumping against the front. We were going about 40 kilometres an hour - was that fast enough to get home before the riot intensified? Our very prescence enraged these people.

The window blurred and shattered, some sort of long object coming through it, followed by pair of hands - a metal bar, wielded by a rioter - I slid back in my seat, trying to avoid the glass, and get away from the enraged man -

Then he fell over backwards, a sudden and jerky movement. He slumped out of the window, flopped onto the pavement. His chest was all red. There were gunshots, then a voice magnified by a bullhorn: "disperse immediately! We are armed and we will fire unless you disperse!" The limo sped up, driving through the sea of panicked people that had gone from attack to desperate flight so suddenly. A couple of rebel guards in trucks followed, brandishing weapons at the crowd. Soon, there was a sort of bubble around the limo. And several corpses left behind on the ground, red splaying out around them.

"No, no, NO!" Haymitch was muttering to himself. "Not the way to handle this, if Hawthorne keeps this up, there'll be -"

I have no idea what Haymitch was saying. I didn't really get a chance to ponder it, because we arrived at my apartment building and slid into the underground parking garage, the door shutting behind us with finality. We were safe. Haymitch immediately bustled out, yelling to the first person he could find to get him the president on the phone, now. I just sat there, shocked.

I guess Peeta got out, came around to my side of the car, and opened the door for me, because all I noticed was his hand in mine, pulling me to my feet. "Shh. It's been a long day - let's go get some rest." Yes. For now, I'd just let him take care of me. I followed willingly, ready to get some sleep.


	9. Chapter 9 - Mel - Onward

**AN**:Thanks for the attention, guys; I'm going to try to keep publishing at a rate of around two chapters/week, to be consistent and to keep going. And thank you to The Giggling Gummy Bear for suggestions - they're going to get used in the bloodbath and into the Games, with some add-ons and adaptation. Sadie Dayton is the first of those inspirations.

Chapter 9 - Mel - Onward

Down a silent corridor, boots clicking against shining marble, and into a room with lavish furniture. The guard frog-marched me down that path, which used to be the haunt of Presidents and advisors, but now served as a kind of temporary Death Row. The guard stood outside the door, gun poised as a reminder, if I needed reminding at this juncture. Anyways, for the moment, I wasn't so bad off; I needed my composure, I would have to comfort my family. Give them hugs. Tell them everything would be okay. Why is it that we feel better lying to those closest to us than to strangers? How did the idea of one last, sweet lie make me feel better?

Then a man walked in, dressed up in the usual Capitol nonsense; a suit of some material I couldn't name, fringed with lace - lace, on a guy! - and accompanied by one of the gaudiest wigs I have seen. And for someone who's walked the Capitol's streets in peacetime, that's saying something. I didn't really give a crap about the short little thing himself; my first thought was _you're not my family. Where are they?_

"The family interviews were cancelled. Security reasons," he began, nervous and sweaty. Of course. Huh, this guy read my mind. Apparently there would be no family goodbyes. Is it possible to be disappointed without surprised? I would have wanted to say goodbye, after all. There were things that should have been expressed. I should have had the opportunity to comfort my family, who were now plunged into an unanticipated silence and left to watch me. It would have been such a comfort to have their support one last time. Something to hold onto. But of course I didn't get that luxury.

The Capitolite in front of me fidgeted, as if afraid of me, the way you'd be afraid of a caged animal at the zoo - it can't do anything to you, yet your instincts yell out. Were all Capitolites so terrified of District people? "I'm Billiam Marrow. I'm going to be your chaperone/mentor." He pronounced the slash. _Douche. _I reached out to shake his hand. Pudgy, shaky and clammy. No eye contact. A person's handshake says a lot about them; firm means confident, eye contact means they're listening. This said nothing good.

Billiam - what a stupid name - passed me a brochure, and said, "Here's the schedule for the Games." I gave it a cursory glance, and it turned out that these Games weren't going to be Hunger Games, exactly. Same basic idea: twenty-four kids, wilderness, twenty-three corpses. But the schedule, the time frame, was going to be a little rushed. This seemed weird to me: the rebels had come out with an official schedule right after the announcement, one that mirrored the traditional one exactly, down to the last detail. These almost-Hunger Games would follow a slightly different course. The usual rituals were there, of course - it isn't as poetic justice if you completly change the metre, huh? Three days training, rather than the traditional week of wait-and-see; that was a bit of a blessing. Then right into interviews. This was different, since they were usually before training, I thought. Maybe I was addled because of the circumstances. There would be no parade of Tributes, which was nice. I would hate being paraded around like a curiousity, anyway, so I'd get to endure it one time less. The morning after interviews, I'd go to the Arena. And die a few days afterwards, barring any absolute miracles.

"Obviously, the schedule changes change our strategy completely -"

"No, it doesn't. The only strategy left is to learn how to tie a knot or light a fire then to _try not to die._"

"Melanite -"

"Mel."

"Mel," he corrected placatingly. "There's always the matter of sponsors. If you can convince the people of the Capitol to sponsor you, you'll have resources to work with. It is usually because of sponsors that the Victor makes it."

"The Captiol's not rich anymore. No one was money to waste on me, not when their home has likely been bombed out or their cousin drawn for the Games."

"You have to make them care enough to dig for the money."

That's just it. That's why I was there. Because people don't care. Still, I could tell there would be no effect to arguing with this guy. In a few minutes, we were lead out into the basement, then a tunnel. Billiam looked alarmed - "I thought there would be a car?" he asked the guard who ushered us. A girl trailed behind the guard; I thought I'd seen her get Reaped.

"There have been, um, issues, sir." _What kind of issues?_ I didn't bother to ask; he probably wasn't allowed to answer me. It was probably just scheduling errors or busted brakes. Apparently Billiam simply didn't care - he just hmmped and carried on. It was a ten minute walk through this endless-seeming warren of tunnels, like an anthill or something. The girl fell into a consistent pace beside me. We didn't really look at each other. In fact, she stared nervously at the concrete floor.

"Oh, yes," started Billiam. "This is your roommate for the leadup to the Games. Each floor was built for two Tributes and their team, so the organisers have decided to keep it that way. Mel, meet Sadie Dayton. Sadie Dayton, Mel Knox. I'll be a mentor to both of you." He looked at us, as if expecting us to chat.

Understandably, I didn't have much to say. _Hey there, mortal enemy. _"Hey," I said, rather dumbly. She didn't even nod, just kept her eyes down. I offered my hand for a handshake; she ignored it, leaving me to awkwardly lower it, feeling like an idiot. She was dressed as ridiculously as Billiam, highlighter pink from the streaks in her hair to the feathers dangling off her fuzzy knee-high boots. She trod on, seemingly caught in her own world. I would have pitied her, if there were still time and space for pity.

I knew we wouldn't get lost, but still, something in the back of my mind wondered if we would just get lost down there. But of course we didn't, and we came up in an elevator. "Here's your suite."

Huh, apparently we'd walked right into the famous Training Centre. Too bad the elevator needed a key to operate - it would have been awesome to make an escape through the tunnels. But of course it couldn't be done, not by an unarmed kid, not when there were keys to steal and guards to avoid. They probably sealed that exit off once the Tributes arrived, anyways. The Capitol always kept up with the details; so would the rebels, if they were smart.

The rest of the evening was as pleasant as you might think it would be. Sadie remained silent as stone, and so I ate a large dinner of the Capitol's finest grilled fish and tossed greens with only Billiam's nauseating chatter to fill in for conversation. The only parts I heard were "likeable on camera" repeated about a thousand times and "make sure to go to the stations involving finding food, shelter and water in training, it's more likely to save you than the flashiest weaponry." I hope I nodded in the right places, but I was quite distracted in turns by the food and my own panic. Sadie Dayton didn't eat at all. Billiam kept politely trying to engage her in conversation or get her to eat, but she was sealed off in her own world, incapable of giving us so much as a nod.

He ushered us off to bed like an overenthusiastic grandparent right after dinner, because apparently the first day of training was quite possibly the biggest deal of our lives. After two hours of imagining horrible deaths in the arena, which ranged from snakebite and starvation to axes and arrows, I fell into a shallow doze and dreampt of more ways to go to my doom.


	10. Chapter 10 - Brendan - Square One

Chapter 10 - Brendan - Square One

After the Reaping, it was right to work. I was left for a few minutes in yet another room of the massive mansion. The place somehow seemed bigger inside than ouside, like it had extra rooms hidden in folds or nooks not seen from outdoors. A guard stood outside, motionless and silent like a statue.

I knew that traditionally, it would be time for the family visits. I didn't have any family, though, not since my father's death, so I was just waiting to see what was coming. Kind of like stepping into the arena. It was such a weird feeling; usually, I had my days pretty well planned, or at least had a sense of control. I decided where I would go, what I would do. I had taken that for granted, but sitting in the dusty silence of that ill-used backroom, rubbing my hands nervously across the pristine leather of that couch, I realised that control was no longer a given. Of course, I could still control myself, if not my environment. I could make it, I knew it. No one knew the Games better than me.

After a while, a Capitolite woman, a complete stranger with died black hair and dramatic gold tattoos of geometrical patterns scrolling around her neck and face, dressed in full Capitol-gear from her knee-high red boots to her piles of perfectly-coiffed hair, loped into the room like she owned it. I almost felt like standing up to greet her, but stamped down the irrational instinct. _I am in control._ She looked me up and down, like a pet buyer would look over a new dog, and finally said, "you'll do."

"I'll do? I'm a former Gamemaker-Apprentice. I have the best chance, bar none, of winning." Didn't hurt to show some confidence; plus, it was the truth.

"Not if you don't get sponsors, dear," she said, a snarky tone creeping into her voice. She seemed to look over her shoulder, "You know, you could die for the sake of one good impression. One book of matches, one drink of water. And sponsors don't like smug. Anyways, I'm Cressida Atwood, and I'll be your mentor and escort throughout the Games. Consider me the Virgil to your Dante." So, my guide to Hell. Not as amusing to me as it was to her, but I laughed, sensing that she was just testing my general knowledge, for whatever reason. _I read literature, you Capitol twit._ I was hardly in the mood for jokes: how could she not realise that? Considering the situation? The door closed behind her, clicking shut with an air of finality.

But back to her point. I was not one to take an insult sitting down. "I'm not smug, and even if I was, it worked for Finnick Odair and Haymitch Abernathy."

"You _are_ smug. It worked for them because they were good-looking. You're just -" she searched for the word - "shrimpy." I usually don't take put-downs seriously, but that stung. I was no slouch, and with a good prep team, I'd be as attractive as anyone! "And yet, I'm about to trust you with the biggest secret in the Capitol."

"Wha -"

"Shut up and listen. This is the only room you'll be in for the next three weeks that isn't microphoned, the only time I get to talk to you in actual private. Riots have begun outside, all around this building. That's why you're here - it's a delay, you were supposed to go right to a car. The Capitol is angry, rebellion's on the air. And we've found out a way to hijack the hovercraft, the one that takes out the Victor." She took a breath, let this sink in. Huh, a counter-coup. I should have figured: the Capitol had one source of power left to it, people. Despite the stripping of their wealth, despite the loss of the Peacekeepers and the end of the battle, there were angry people here. Angry about the removal of their wealth and power, but especially about these Games. But what did the new rebellion want with the Victor? "The hovercraft is fueled up when they get down to two survivors, so we should be able to save the last two. We need one of them to be Trish Snow."

"But - what about -"

"You? Doesn't matter. If you can get to the final two, you can live as well. That's the idea. But only if Trish is with you - the President's granddaughter needs to live."

"You need a symbol. Your own little Mockingjay, another pretty bird trained to sing the right tune."

"Exactly. And this one has a pedigree - her grandfather's admirers will flock to her." She laughed a little. "Pun intended." I faked a laugh. That was a terrible pun, but it never hurts to mildly flatter.

"And you need me to deliver her to you. In exchange for my survival." I let my words seep into the silence. "Why shouldn't I just take my chances? Try to be the Victor myself?"

"Sure, there's risk in trying to save Snow. But if you do, there's a place for you in the restored Panem. If you don't, well - tell me how merciful winners in coups are to the uncooperative."

Hmm, but here was the real question. "If you have the manpower to take the hovercraft, couldn't you do something bigger?"

"Our resources are finite. But tell me, Brendan, what was the secret to the original Games? You, of all people, should know. Tell me, Gamemaker."

"One person survived. Only one, so that the people were downtrodden enough. But one, so that they still had hope. So that next year's victims would fight, so that the people didn't simply give up." I thought I knew where she was going with this. "You'll save one extra, to show your goodness. To give a sense of success and hope. But you'll let the rest die. To anger the masses, to feed the fire. You probably want me to try and feed the fires, while I'm at it."

"Well, mostly because our resources are so finite - this plan has the best chance of succeeding. But still, you've really got it, Shrimpy! Yes, finding a few ways to show off the brutality of the Games would definitely be bonus points. But keep your own hands clean, you need to be sympathetic. Which you're not really, at first glance. Bit of a cold fish, but definitely smart as they say." What an odd blend of compliment and insult. This woman would drive me crazy over the next week, I knew it then.

The guard started to open the door, and at its first creak, Cressida whipped out a sheet of rumpled paper from her gaudy flame-patterned handbag and pointed at it. "And lastly, there'll be an interview session. Each Tribute gets five minutes, it's your time to really shine. Here, keep the schedule to remind you, Shrimpy. Don't want you getting lost." She handed me the paper with a wink, then turned to the guard, calm as anything. "Oh, are we ready to go, sir?"

The guard nodded, still expressionless as an automaton. There would probably be guys like that present everywhere, or at least cameras and microphones. I wouldn't be able to speak freely untill the Games were over. Either that, or I never would again... but I couldn't be going in with that attitude. Failure simply wasn't an option.

Another guard practically marched in, bringing a short boy with black hair. I hadn't caught his name at the Reaping. They started walking us down the hallways, and as we continued, Cressida introduced us. "Brendan, this is Yann Belliard. Yann, this is Brendan Greymark." We muttered greetings at each other, neither particuarly thrilled to meet someone who might kill us soon. Understandable. He seemed decently fit, and I somehow had an impression that he was no idiot. "Ah, Brendan, Yann was a geneticist in training before he came here, and was going to work on mutts for the Games. A very loyal Capitolite. He knows almost as much about these Games as you do." I could tell from her meaningful tone, the way she placed her emphasis, that she meant that Yann was also in on this plan. She went on to inform him that I was a former Gamemaker. "You two would do well in an alliance together. I can see you working together."

Hmm, why not? If I had Yann, who knew his muttations, myself, who knew the Games intimately, and maybe a couple of others - I could find those still loyal to the Capitol, maybe even a couple fools willing to die for it - I could make it to the end. We'd need a team, anyways. Numbers meant protection; someone to keep watch, ways to divide labour, extra sets of eyes looking out. Someone like me needed physical backup, too. If I chose correctly, picked the ones who wanted vengeance against the rebels or to show support for the Capitol, I wouldn't have backstabbing problems either. I was beginning to like this plan.

"I'd be happy to get some allies." Yann just smiled. I'd have to get a feel for this guy.

We'd arrived at a door, and continued on into a maze tunnels. Within five minutes, we were in the training centre - it was ingenious, how everything in the Capitol was linked like that. It made for some strategic vulnerablities, but also came in handy. I wonder if any rebels had ever thought of trying to use the tunnels to sneak into a government building, or even the Presidential Mansion...

We arrived in a plush apartment where we'd have to stay for the week to come. I was inexplicably jumpy - as if a Tribute would jump out from behind the couch. _Save it for the Arena._ I suppose it was just the sense that things had gotten real, that my next moves would affect my survival. Or lack thereof. Ah, well. The only thing to do this evening was to make a good impression on Yann - it was too early to talk strategy, not without seeing what the rest of our alliance might be like. Maybe two more members... but Trish Snow was a certainty. Trish, the little girl who fainted when she was drawn. I wondered what it would take to get her through the Arena. _What a wimp,_ half of me muttered, _she doesn't have the right stuff. Do you want to drag dead weight? _The other half knew she was second in line to rule Panem. The President had meant to make Panem a hereditary dictatorship - with Presidents that passed their role on to descendants, like kings - and that made Trish very important to the Capitol supporters. Very important indeed.

There were four possible outcomes, I supposed - I could go for trying to be victor, and not try to save Trish. If the hovercraft-hijacking plan turned out, then I would face some very angry conspirators. Which, historically, didn't turn out well. If their plan didn't turn out, well, it was the Victory tour then on to whatever kind of life I wanted. If I did try to save Trish, it would be a greater risk, but it would also get me a relatively secure alliance. If the rescue plan turned out, I'd be a hero to the Capitol; if it didn't, I'd simply have to kill Trish. Easy, since she wasn't physically a threat.

I came to a pretty obvious conclusion: I'd better cover my ass. I couldn't risk the ire of the Capitol supporters, not if their plan turned out at all. That was my advantage; I saw change coming. I planned for the eventualities. No matter what happened, I could come out on top.


	11. Chapter 11 - Trish - Wake Up

**AN:** Sorry for the brief delay. I was working on some other fics for Les Miserables, which will be out soon.

Chapter 11 - Trish - Wake Up

_I sat on some sort of fancy chair, gold with carved arms and spindly feet and a high back. Kids around my age, some younger and some older, some girls and some boys, approached me. They bowed and presented me with gifts. As I unwrapped them, I noticed that some sort of red liquid spilled from the packages, and when I opened the first few, I found that the kids had given me - parts. Parts of people, still bloody. An arm, a leg, a head, all with signs of damage and looking like they'd been violently hacked off. I backed away and said that I couldn't accept it, and the chair started to get smaller and smaller as the kids crowded me, their bloody hands and crazed eyes obvious as they got closer. They approached me and made me accept the gifts, and as I took them, the chair got bigger again, sturdier, more ornate and more comfortable._

"Trish? Trish, dear?" I awoke to a terrible smell, the face of a total stranger hovering above me, her face blurring and moving a little. "It's okay. It's fine."

I groaned. "That smells awful."

"Smelling salts," the woman replied. "I'm so sorry. Do you remember what happened?"

Did I remember what happened? How could I possibly forget? It had been the most terrifying moment of my life. Yet more were certainly going to top it soon. "Yes. I was drawn for the Games, and -" I trailed off. "Where am I?"

"Your apartments in the Training Centre. Training starts tomorrow, but don't worry about that yet. First, get comfortable and relax." The woman seemed to realise what she'd said, cleared her throat, and rushed to add, "As much as you can. For now, we're going to get you a good healthy dinner and introduce you to your team, okay?"

I wanted to say that no, it wasn't really okay, I'd passed out because this was moving way too fast, and what did she mean training was tomorrow, and who was she anyways, and I'd jsut had an awful dream - but somehow I didn't know if I should say that to a stranger, as much as I wanted to get that off my chest and get some reassurance. What do you call something that you imagine while you're passed out? It's not a dream, exactly, because fainting or getting knocked out is certainly not sleeping. It seems a lot like a dream, though. This one was like a dream, but not like one of _my_ dreams - I had never had nightmares, because I'd never been that worried. I guessed the Games had kind of bounced off me before then, and that was the extent of disturbing things I'd seen. Well, there was the wreckage of the Capitol - but twisted steel and scared refugees hadn't gotten me either. My brain was usually like a calm pond, not a ripple on its surface. Well, that was over. The 'dream' - let's just call it that - that I'd had while knocked out had made no freaking sense; but when do dreams make sense? No matter how weird, it was still unnerving. But still, I couldn't get the words out to tell the stranger all this, so I just made an unhappy little _uh-huh_ noise.

"Well, I'm Melinda Clare. I'll be your escort and mentor for these Games," she said, a smile never leaving her pretty face. Every bit of her glossy black hair was tied back in the bun that was the style now, and she had a lovely floral dress. But she didn't accessorize much - her clothing was way too subtle to really have full-on style. She seemed kind, though, and I was glad to have a nice mentor. "Why don't you get changed and cleaned up, then come out to dinner?"

I nodded, and she gave my hand one last comforting squeeze then left. I did as she suggested; found a great outfit waiting for me, in the best shade of hot pink, and splashed some cool water on face to make myself wake up. No luck: it didn't work at all. With a fresh coat of makeup, I was ready to go.

There were three of us for dinner: myself, Melinda, and another girl. I decided to introduce myself, since it never hurts to be nice. "Hi, I'm-"

"Yeah, I know who you are. Trish Snow."

"Yes." I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised; Melinda would have told her who her roommate would be. But did she have to interrupt me? "What's your name?"

"Brienne. Jameson."

"Where are you from?"

"Outer Capitol." Those were the suburbs around the city, and they were usually home to Peacekeeper officials' families, professionals like bankers, service providers like stylists and the shopkeepers who ran the Capitol's business. Capitolites from modest families, who had to work for a living. It was nothing like the Districts, though.

Brienne didn't elaborate, so there was a long silence. "Nice weather lately."

"Hmm."

"I like the sunny weather."

"Mmm." Another silence. Did she have hearing troubles, or didn't she like conversation? I know I tend to talk when I'm nervous, but it does feel way better than a cold silence. At least talking made you feel less alone.

Well, when all else fails - "Want to hear a joke?"

"Not really." Brienne was completly expressionless, as if trying to hide some frustration. "It's not really the time for jokes."

Luckily, Melinda walked in and sat down, and the soup was soon served as I told her the joke and chatted to her about the weater. Brienne listened and even smiled at the joke, but didn't say a word more.

"Well, now it's time to talk business," said Melinda, with a look on her face like she'd rather not. "I should catch you up, Trish."

I'd have preferred she didn't, but I listened anyways. She handed both of us a sheet of the Games schedule; Brienne studied it intensely, and I only gave it a small glance. It turned my stomach to even think about what was coming.

"For you, Trish, there's a sheet with names and photos of all the Tributes." There they were, in glossy colour photos, all twenty-four of them lined up with descriptions of how they'd acted at the Reaping. I was on it. It wasn't specially made up for me, I realised - this was a betting guide. I had used similar ones to keep track of the Games in previous years, striking out Tributes who were killed and cutting out pictures of favourites. My stomach turned at the thought, and I pushed it away, uneasy with the thought that soon, people would be betting on my survival. Or death. It had seemed so normal and so fun to bet on the Games, but now I saw...

"Not going to look?" asked Brienne, in the end. " Could I have a sheet like that? You want to see who your opponents are. Think about alliances."

"Actually," added Melinda, "I do have a bit of an alliance set up for you girls. I know it's early, but there are some, uh, special circumstances this year. And they'll benefit you both, especially you, Trish."

_Whatever. Couldn't I just die in peace? _"Who's in it?" My tone showed exactly how unexcited I was.

Melinda took the paper and started pointing at people. "Yann Belliard, here. And Brendan Greymark. We're looking for Melanite Knox, but you'll have to get to know him yourself and get him to join." As she flipped through the pages, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone familiar. _No. Couldn't be - my luck's not that awful._

"May I see that? Yes, yes it was. My good friend was on the list. It couldn't be - why this? Why both of us? I had known this girl since grade school. She was so sweet, so nice...

"Sadie. I need Sadie Dayton to be in the alliance. I want to know someone."

Brienne snorted. "You know only one person lives, right?" She gave Melinda a weird look as she said this. Maybe she thought I was crazy. "You can't save her."

Melinda sat back, a thoughtful look on her face. "How badly do you want her?"

"I'm making it a condition of my joining the alliance." _What have I got to lose? _I tried my best poker face, and probably just looked ridiculous.

"I'm sure it can be arranged. After all, you're very important to this alliance."


	12. Chapter 12 - Mel - Train

AN:

I know, it's been a while. Thank you for the patience - I've been busy with some band stuff and work.

Chapter 12 - Mel - Train

Something shook my shoulder, breaking me out of a doze. "Hey, it's the first day of training, Mel. Wakey wakey." I groaned. Peeled one eye open with great effort.

"Wha? What is it?" I removed Billiam's pudgy fist from my shoulder, then closed my eyes again, hoping against all odds that he'd just go away, that all of this would just go away.

"We have a very important day today, Melanite. It's your first day of training."

"I'm a Peacekeeper. I'm already trained."

"That's a terrible attitude! You need to be trained in survival, learn about the wilderness. Up and at 'em!" His tone was sunny as a songbird on uppers. Damn, why did I have to listen to this?

With that, he flipped the mattress. He was stronger than he looked, it only took him one movement. Some profanity escaped me before I could think.

"Now, now. What would sponsors think of that kind of language?"

"- off." _What would they think of that language, Billy?_

But soon enough, through nagging and cajoling, he had me fully dressed in a training uniform that didn't fit quite right and bundled into an elevator along with my silent little roommate. He didn't bother to address her, probably because he knew he'd get no reaction. She still stared straight forward, following along without a word.

"Good morning, Sadie," I said. Might as well try.

No response from her, but Billiam smiled approvingly, glad to see that I wasn't so far gone that I didn't make attempts. _Like her._

I sighed. Well, I had a family to try to return to. "Billiam, what stations do you recommend?"

"You're already combat-trained and a medic. You need to learn to forage, find food and water, identify plants that could be used for medecine. Try, hmm," he thought for a second, "the Plant Identification station. And Water Purification Methods, too. Maybe Camoflage. Don't bother with much combat stuff, just learn to hold and swing a couple different weapons then keep your Peacekeeper training in mind. And make sure to get to Medicinal Plants, it'll compliment your medical knowledge."

_I know how to shoot a gun. There won't be any of those. I'm a medic, I never had to kill. If I'm cornered, I'm dead._ Still, being well fed and having water sounded like a very smart priority. If I couldn't manage those, I couldn't live more than a few days. "Sounds like an excellent idea. I'll go straight to those."

"And try to find an alliance. Figure out who you'll stick with."

"Figure out who'll backstab me, you mean."

"My, my. Do you have trust issues, Mr. Knox?"

I about choked laughing. This guy was capable of sarcasm? Who'd have thought it? Hey, people surprise you; it's exactly what makes them dangerous.

With that, Sadie and I proceeded out of the elevator. There was an attendant waiting, gathering the twenty-four unfortunates into a circle, explaining who training would work. Most Tributes took this as a cue to stare each other down instead of listening, and there was much glaring. I stood beside Sadie on the very edge of the huddle. Looking around the room, nobody seemed to have "advantageous ally" written all over their face. I figured I'd take a couple days to think, observe these people as much as possible. This was obviously the time for caution.

As soon as the group broke up, the stations involving heavy weapons were totally full. Apparently nobody had gotten the same advice as Sadie and I. _Sadie. I suppose I'd better drag her along with me, just so that no one notices her condition and decides to knock her off first thing... _It was one of the first things that came into my head, for whatever reason. Why did I care? Why did I bother? But still, there I was, gently tapping her on the shoulder. "Come on. We're going over to Plant Identification." She followed, without any words or gestures of response. I definitely wouldn't be working with her in the arena. I didn't want dead weight to lug, not when I had my own life to save and family to return to. Why was I even giving her this small help?

As I was contemplating the oddness of my own small generosity, I didn't notice a thin, blonde girl dashing up behind her, shadowed by some chick with the grim look of an excutioner and the axe in her hand to match. She seemed resigned to being dragged over by her friend, who squealed as she ran up to Sadie and clasped her into a tight hug as the hugee remained still and straight as a tree trunk. "Sadie, Sadie. What are the odds, two best friends being drawn - I'm so sorry you're here."

"You should be sorry for yourself," I blurted, before giving it any thought, then realized how insensitive I sounded. "Well, her too. Actually, miss, there's something you should know..." I'd broken bad news before, but I wasn't quite sure how to describe by roommate's condition. Was it shock? Prolonged terror? How could I tell her that her friend was not speaking or responding, completely shut down?

But she had already noticed. Her hands fell from around Sadie, her expression went from some kind of joy and comfort to worry and fear. "What's wrong?"

"It's very unfortunate, but your friend hasn't spoken or reacted to people since she was drawn. It might be some sort of shock, miss -"

"She's weak," the silent girl behind her cut in. "Why do you want her in the alliance, anyways?"

"She's my friend, I'm not abandoning her. Thank you for telling me what you know and for keeping an eye on Sadie. What's your name?"

"Mel Knox. You're welcome, Miss Snow."

"You know me?"

"Of course. You're the President's granddaughter. It's an honour to meet you. Crappy circumstances, though." _Rightfully, you should be second in line to rule Panem. How could I not know you?_

"Please don't call me that. I'm just Trish."

"Sure. It's very nice to meet you, Trish." I put out my hand for a handshake, and she returned the gesture. Her grip was clammy and infirm. Her eyes almost immediately returned to her friend. "She'll still be in our alliance," she said, to no one in particular. "She will snap out of it." It was like she was trying to convince herself of it. But this was interesting - she already had an alliance. Probably with this girl behind her, the big one, but then who else?

The rest of the day was somewhat less eventful. Sadie took to trailing behind Trish like a lost puppy; their alliance, I supposed, seemed to introduce themselves and get to know each other at lunch. There was a weedy kid, who listened much more than he spoke; a black-haired guy, short and stocky, with a big laugh; the tall girl who seemed to be Trish's roomate, since they'd come in together; and Trish herself, seemingly the centre of the group but unaware of it. Wasn't it unusual, to have alliances decided on before Training? I made a mental note to ask my mentor about this.

The rest of the Tributes sat in a realtively silent group, mostly sealed in their own worries. There was a trickle of conversation, mostly maintained by a tall, athletic-looking guy who introduced himself as "Azul Weston, entertainer extrordinaire." Eighteen kids sat around listening to this idiot, kicking in their own thoughts periodically, mostly trying to eat a decent lunch. No one was particularily interesting - a little girl who sat perched on the edge of her seat introduced herself as Aviari, a dancer. There was Marcellus, who was confident he'd win and gravitated to a group of four other athletic kids, including a girl called Adeline and Azul The Talker. Then, on the opposite extreme, there were the kids like Shanna, Colette and Evan, on the younger end and not up for conversation, clearly intimidated by the Talkers. I couldn't blame them - that bunch, Marcellus and Azul and Adeline, reminded me of the Career Tributes back home in District Two. Bullies, all too eager to show off, with no common sense. Or decency; most of them looked forward to killing. I hated the type.

One boy, however, sat off in the corner, completely oblivious to the rest of the group, seeming to count the food on his plate. He was a tiny thing, probably twelve or thirteen. He was like a rabbit, twitchy and nervous, surrounded by wolves. Still, I envied him his solitude, but I had to try and get some intelligence - forwarned is forarmed, right?

The first day of training gave me decent experience with plants. I was learning quickly, gladly. I asked Billiam about the oddly quick alliance, and he figured the mentors must have brokered it for whatever reason. Dinner was quite and restful, bed immediate afterwards.

The day hadn't been as intense as I expected, but one thing was for sure - the Games were on.


	13. Chapter 13 - Brendan - Game On

Chapter 13 - Brendan - Game On

Waking up the first day of training, all I could think was, _A plan. I need a plan._ Shaking sleep out of my head, I got dressed. There were uniforms used for training, but these ones looked just like last year's. Mine didn't fit quite right. _Weird, we used to get these made new yearly, tailored for the participants..._ they must be last year's clothes, reused. I wondered what other poor sap had worn this outfit and couldn't keep myself from shuddering.

The morning was uneventful. Breakfast and preparations passed with both me and my roommate totally stuck in our heads, rummaging around for strategy and plans. Our mentor - rude woman - sent us out the door with a hearty clap on the back and a call of "Don't choke, idiots! Go to the damn survival stations, don't bother with the hand-to-hand combat! And for god's sake, don't impale yourselves on the weapon stations!" We groaned at the same time. Funny, sharing the same thoughts and feelings as someone you were admittedly going to stab in the back, even for a moment.

I was definitely one of the more confident-looking Tributes walking into the training floor. Not surprising - I knew exactly what I was in for, I had a plan, those kids had not a clue. If I had to be screwed, it was at least nice that there were many others more screwed than me. Appraising the competition was going to be step one, of course. Then, I could use some training with wilderness situations. I wasn't going to be getting into fights, not by choice. The head trainer gave a little speech while the Tributes ignored him and stared around at the stations, then we all dispersed in groups of two or three.

"How about we hit the fire making station together, Yann?" I didn't want to be the only kid going to a station alone. Get singled out as a loner, and I'd probably get targeted. Hell, I was a target anyways. They probably all saw the threat in a Gamemaker playing.

On the bright side, the trainer was thrilled to actually have someone come over. Apparently most District kids already knew how to make a fire with flint or a lighter, he explained. They generally heat their homes with coal or wood fires. After more than a few minor burns and scratches, Yann and I had both managed to make fire using flint. "I guess getting the flint will be the hard part," I said. The trainer nodded and wished me good luck.

A bell rang for lunch, and everyone dropped what they were doing. "Killing training dummies must work up a hunger," I mused out loud, walking over to the cafeteria.

A social situation. Shit, I hadn't even thought of this. A crowded room, voices bounching off the walls, people to impress - my worst area of competiton, and a single slip up could out me as weak, mark me as a target. What to do? In the end, I shuffled up to the lunch counter behind the Snow girl - getting as close as possible to the centre of my alliance couldn't hurt. "Sorry, I can't eat this.

"Hi, I'm Brendan Greymark. Nice to meet you, Miss Snow." _Blah, blah, blah. Niceties, niceties, niceties._ I hoped I didn't look nervous at all. There was a group of Career-looking kids, already seated and barking back and forth - these were like dogs, they could smell fear.

"Oh, yes. My mentor told me about you. Nice to meet you, I guess." I looked over my shoulder, nervous that someone else had heard her speak of the dealings through our mentors - no one had, far as I could tell. The paranoia was already setting in.

I followed her to a table, trailed by a little shadow of a girl. I offered my hand to her. "Brendan Greymark. And you are?"

There was no response. Trish piped up, "She's a bit shocked right now. She'll snap out of it."

Before I had a chance to tear a strip out of her for this terrible move - associating with such a weakling, what was she thinking? - Yann and a somber girl walked up to the table. She introduced herself as Brienne Jameson, Trish's roommate, then didn't utter another word. Yann, gratefully, kickstarted the conversation. I looked around the table - we had Trish, who was non-optional and who was apparently linked to Sadie for whatever reason. They'd be difficult to drag through, not much help physically. Yann and I were brains - he was pudgy, I couldn't run. Brienne started to even things out, as she explained that she had been an athlete before this all began.

And we had what was looking like a Career alliance sitting at the next table. Pretty soon they'd realise who to pick off.

Therefore, we needed more muscle than just silent Brienne. Who could we pick? "Met anyone interesting?" I asked the table.

Heads shook back and forth. Yann blabbed about some entertainer he'd meet at the longsword station who was really fun but already in that other alliance.

"Not really. My roommate's a dope," commented Brienne, breaking her silence. "Still thinks President Snow is king. Idiot, to be loyal to a rotting corpse and a deposed government."

That is exactly what we needed. Someone who would take care of Trish just on principle, stick with her, take care of her. "What's his name?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Mel Knox." She stuck her thumb in the direction of the end of the other table.

_Great. Now all we need is a way to get Trish through the bloodbath - that's going to be the worst part. She can't fight, and there's no way to hide. I'll need to get her to run, but there's so much that could go awry. _Adistraction, I needed to cook up a distraction. There was my plan for the next day.

Getting in for the evening, Yann and I ate dinner with our mentor. About halfway through dinner, I decided to set the plan in action. "Hey, what do you think of Mel Knox? The Tribute who used to be a Peacekeeper?"

The mentor snorted. "I don't think of him at all. Why? Looking to add to the alliance?"

"Yes. I think he'd be useful."

She swilled the last of her beer around in the bottom of her glass, a pensive look on her face. "Yeah, nothing wrong with that. Let's look him up." She reached into a bag she'd left on a nearby couch and got out a list of Tributes, with photos and brief descriptions. "Yep, used to be a medic. Excellent choice, Brainy."

"You'll ask his mentor?"

"Sure. You know, I thought you'd be a loner about this. Good for you, strengthening your alliance. You might survive after all. Just maybe."


End file.
